


Small Sacrifices

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Asexual Character, Background Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Canon-Typical Violence, Delusions, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Light Angst, Mental Instability, Mild Dissociation, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Religion, Squirrel | Percival (Cursed) (mentioned) - Freeform, Swearing, Wicklow (Cursed) (mentioned), no beta we die like mogwain, the hidden are really bad at communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27506551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: Stand-alone prompt responses.
Relationships: Father Carden & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26
Collections: Netflix's Cursed - Monthly prompts picked by a cursed bot!





	1. The Cloak

**Author's Note:**

> November is the month of sacrifices, so here are mine ;)  
> Those are, in a sense, writing exercises for me; just posting them in case someone happens to vibe with a story or two.  
> Nothing is beta-read, and while I do realise this is a sin far graver than mass murder, which we as a fandom are chill with, I can only humbly ask for your forgiveness, and, perhaps, a comment if something really stands out. Thanks.

One can describe his existence as a fragile system of checks and balances that rests precariously on three foundation stones — three possessions that, cautiously, can be called his. 

Namely, the sword, the scourge and the cloak.

It is almost like a fairytale, but only as long as you do not look directly. Lancelot, however, does — should have done that much sooner, but better late than never. There is something pensive to his features when he touches the tokens one by one. First, his fingers run over the steel of the hilt, then briefly skim over the leather, and, finally, brush against the soft, heavy fabric. All three items are not gifts as much as they are reminders of where his loyalty lies, each adorned with a cross. It is severe in its simplicity, which, he supposes, is appropriate. Neverthless, it doesn’t take away the fact that the longer Lancelot looks at it, the louder the noise in his head grows.

It’s straightforward, what the scourge and the sword are for. One is for the almost-man to punish the enemy inside for his sins, the other is to punish the enemies outside for theirs. But the cloak? It’s a bit more complicated than that. It is not merely there to keep the elusive warmth close to his skin, nor does it lend him any anonymity - quite the opposite, in fact. Enemies and allies, which, frankly, are also enemies, but to a lesser degree, see the Weeping Monk a mile away mostly because of his attire. (If he gives them the chance to see him at all, that is.)

No, the cloak is there as a token of humility. And, through it, it is also one of protection. 

At least that is what the monks told him when they first dropped it over his shoulders, right after his baptismal. Their faces were stern and solemn in the dim light of the church hall when they spoke. The words were chosen carefully for him to understand despite the early age, and each one was uttered with such gravity that years later, most of them are still etched deep into his memory.

—an abomination; the mere sight of you is insulting to God—cover yourself until…

—because God is merciful—if you devote your life—one day, will be forgiven for what you are.

But despite their weight, all of those words made little sense to Lancelot, back then, except for the very last ones.

As long as the cloak is on you, they said, the fire will not touch you.

\---

He was too young then to notice the inconsistencies or to question their motives. Like a rabbit in front of an entire pit of snakes, he stood there, entranced by their words, and shook under the white cloak.

It was too long for him, the folds of it too heavy — something to grow into, they said.

\---

The Ashboy is six; he is orphaned and starved and beaten. After all that he has endured in just a couple of months, it is foolish to be scared of how the wind wails in the drafty hallways of the abbey. But he does know yet how to bridge that gap between knowing your fear is unreasonable and acting accordingly. So, Lancelot curls up tighter and listens to the haunting howling with the wariness of the man trying to sleep in the woods where the wolves prowl.

It is just a stupid draft, he tells himself, but still curls his toes a bit, so that the cloak covers them properly. He wanted to take it off for the night, but the glimmers of the bonfire lit in the courtyard gave him pause. Slowly, he pulled it back on, eyes not leaving the orange flashes dancing over the ceiling of his cell. 

The little room they put him in is deep in the heart of the maze of stairs and corridors. As they walked him there, he tried to remember the way, but it quickly turned too long and windy, details lost in the haze of tiredness. When he tries to recall the route now, it all tangles together in his exhausted mind, and he is no longer sure whether the fifth turn was left or right, after all. Probably left. 

He could use his nose, follow the scent of the horses, but it is not safe. Although the howling belongs to the wind, there are still wolves in this forest — only they do not call themselves that. As if the sheep ever had fangs like theirs, Lancelot scoffs, cold iron swords hung at their belts. They wear them proudly. He doesn’t think the have a reason to be prouud, but it is not a fight he can see himself winning.

\---

At night, whispers are coming, born out of the shadows curling in the corners of the room. They startle Lancelot awake a few times, and he calls out frantically into the twilight. He demands they reveal themselves, but no matter how long he waits, no one steps out of the dark. After the third time, he realises it must all be in his head. 

A cold twinge of fear crawls up his spine, and he vows to banish those spectres before they steal his mind piece by piece. He has seen it happen to an old fisherman, back home, and from the fragments of what his parents have said, the poor sod’s memories have been gone, as well. But if Lancelot ever wants to find his way back home, he needs his memory sharp. 

Thus, he tugs the cloak over his head, hoping it would hide him from the mutterings of the darkness and the flickering glimmers of fire on his ceiling. Under its heavy folds, the dark is different, warm and inviting and quiet, and, bit by bit, his breathing calms down. With the last soft sniffle, he breathes deeply in and tries to imagine it’s his father’s cloak, instead. It is very much not, the scent all wrong, and texture too, but it does the trick, anyway, and finally, the Ashboy falls into restless sleep.

\---

He does not want to believe a single word that comes out of Man Bloods’ mouths, about him and his kin, but there is little else for him to do but play along. It is as if he is caught between the hammer and the anvil.

It does seem like an apt comparison since Lancelot has overheard them saying something to the effect. He has been dusting the floor — it is supposed to be an exercise in humility, but only makes his pride hide deeper inside. He has been loitering next to the doors of Father Carden's chamberts when they’ve started to talk, about forging, and weapons, and then his name has sounded. Immediately, he has perked up and crept closer to the door. The priests have not been aware of how keen his hearing was, but he has made a mistake of lingering for too long, distracted by their conversation. He has been quiet — too quiet, where he was supposed to be making noise. Just like they noted his silence during the praying hours, they have noticed it now, as well. 

Turns out, the cloak might have kept him safe from the fire, but not from the scourge.

\---

Whatever foolish hope he's had of anyone coming to rescue him, it's been gone with the wind after he's seen the forces camped around the abbey, tents sprawling far and wide. His people are the fiercest warriors in the land, but there are now probably a dozen of them left, at best, the ones who travelled in the faraway kingdoms when the paladins attacked.

Hence, it’s up to Lancelot to get out of this trap. At first, he's thought it could not be that difficult to slip away under cover of darkness, but the priests watch him like hawks. All fourteen attempts at escape have ended up in a disaster, so far. There is one more route he noticed the other day, maybe two, but even the boy himself would admit that it is a stretch. 

They keep pushing that book of theirs into his hands, and he keeps shoving it back; but there are more of them, and they always crowd him in corner where they tower over Lancelot easily. Still, he fights back; it annoys them enough to have him locked in his room for a week — alone, save for that wretched black tome.

There is nothing at all to do but sit on the bench that serves as his bed. It would have been a reprieve from the chores, but the whispers grow stronger and stronger. Now, they start to haunt them during the day, as well. He still can't make out what they say, and there is no one to ask about it. So, sullen and exhausted, Lancelot glares at the book for hours. It lays there, innocent and unthreatening. It is just parchment and leather, he tells himself, there is no sorcery in it to harm him; Man Bloods do not know such spells.

Reluctantly, he picks it up. The tome is unexpectedly heavy, enough for it to start slipping out of his fingers, but he catches it in time. When his eyes skim over the first page, Lancelot is almost disappointed to see he barely understands what it says, even though the language is familiar. But the pages are adorned with small illustrations that catch his eye — he secretly likes such things, patterns and colors mesmerising him easily. Alhough the faces depicted in the book are vaguely disturbing, it is something that helps take his mind off the noise of loneliness.

A few hourse must have passed before the door opens again. With a start, Lancelot looks up and immediately shoves the book off his lap, but it is too late. The monk has caught him red-handed, and he hunches on himself as the voices grow louder.

To his surprise, there is amusement in Father Carden’s eyes as the man walks across the room and bends over to pick the book up from the floor. Calmly, just as if nothing has happened, he asks Lancelot whether he has found it curious.

He says grimly that he does not understand a single word, but the man just smiles. Sitting down next to him, he opens the book and starts reading in a measured, amiable way that makes Lancelot cautiously scoot over, curious against his own will.

It does not take long for the low, calm voice to drown out the mutterings of the ghosts.

\---

Before he leaves, the man teaches Lancelot a simple prayer and gives him a rosary. When the door behind him closes, and Lancelot is left alone, he remembers himself and throws the beads to the side with bitterns born out of realising he has just lost another fight.

But then the voices come again, brushing past his flimsy defences with barely any effort. They are growing more insistent, and he wonders if speaking back might help, or just — doing anything at all. His eyes roam the room, desperate for a distraction, and, inevitably, land on the book again. It feels wrong, but Lancelot doesn’t know what else to do. Hanging over the side of the bench, he reaches for the rosary and then leans back agains the wall a frown on his face. 

The syllables roll from his tongue as do the beads between his fingers. For a while, it fends the whispers off. As he speaks, the shadows melt in the sunlight filtering through the bars of the little window. However, no matter how fervently he repeats the prayer when the light grows dim, they come back with renewed vigour as if emboldened by the darkness. Like snakes, they try to slither inside his head, and they curl in his stomach, a heavy, cold weight tugging painfully at something inside. 

They bring with them the sharp pang of guilt and remorse. However, he doesn’t know yet that that’s what the salty taste on his tongue means. He simply wipes the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand and tries to catch his breath, but the ragged sobs keep shaking his small frame. Desperately, he digs the nails into his wrists and grips at the rough wood of the bench. If it was a nightmare, this should have woken him up already, but as it is, pain barely takes the edge off his fear. 

The ghost talk, and talk, and talk, and know no rest in their never-ending, disapproving watch over Lancelot. Their faces are but blurry spots in the dim moonlight, and they barely move. Only their voices do not cease for an instant, the chant of accusations reverberating through his bones.

He tugs the cloak over his head to make them stop, and at first, they abide. 

\---

A year passes, and Lancelot learns to ignore the voices, feeling fortified and encouraged by the holy words during the day. Still, he is careful not to look too closely at the shadows that linger in his room after the sun is down. 

But when he starts to make out the words they say and begins to lose sleep over that, mistakes creep into his letters and footwork, and it is no longer possible to keep the problem hidden. Once he is pressed to confess his fear, it displeases Father Carden greatly. It is a weakness, his mentor says, one that needs to be eradicated. Not one to shy away from difficult decisions, he sends Lancelot off to his first fight barely a week later.

… The vines are clinging to the hem of Lancelot's cloak, but he pays them no attention, striding through the woods without missing a beat. He is sure on his feet and sure of the trail, the scent of Fey strong in the still, warm air. It is oddly pleasant, but that is just the nature of the folk. They are like poisoned flowers — or at least that’s what one of the Abbotts has said about him with a leer that has made the boy’s stomach churn.

He is used to that feeling, though, as he is used to ignoring the feeling of wrongness. It’s that or letting himself be driven insane by the anguished murmurs echoing through his room every other night.

Still, what they do in that settlement… It’s jarring. 

But young paladin tells himself he needs to be strong, and fists the pale fabric of his cloak until his knuckles turn just as white. His calm mask craks when one of the demon-borns clutches at the hem with bloodied fingers and almost tears it apart. There is something so wild and pleading in the man’s face that Lancelot’s heart stutters. Swallowing thickly, he looks up at Father Carden, unconsiously seeking advise — and sees that the man is already looking back at him.

When the paladin inclines his head, Lancelot knows what he needs to do.

\---

It was a good deed, he tells himself, rubbing the bunch of grass along the blade, up and down, and up again. He is smearing blood more than wiping it off, and after a moment, the boy abandons the futile effort and sits heavily back. With the stiff, red-stained fingers, he tugs at the cloak to wrap it tighter around his shoulders, trying to fight off the sudden chill.

There are quiet, measured steps behind him, but he does not look up, already knowing by scent alone who it is. When a warm, heavy hand grasps at his shoulder, Lancelot, without a thought, reaches out to hold onto it. It tethers him to early August night like an anchor, and for that, he is oddly grateful.

\---

It goes like this for a while. He fights during the day, and then, after the water from his fae starts to run clean once again, taking the grime away, after the words of the prayers are all uttered diligently, his fight continues well into the wee hours of the night.

But the churchmen kept their word. The cloak shields him from fire, and he walks through the blazes untouched. The same cannot be said for the pitiful creatures — fragile creatures, delicate, even, his mind supplies, but Lancelot does not listen. The white of their bodies turns red and then black, charred, free to be dispersed in the wind. It’s beautiful, he notes to himself, though he is wise enough not to share that observation with anyone.

The ghosts, however, know his quietest thoughts, and they do not take them kindly. Most of the time, Lancelot manages to tear the shadows apart before the rotten feeling in his stomach sets. If it does, though, it spills out in the most violent, harrowing nightmares. He does not know what they mean, but they chill him to the bone and linger like a foul aftertaste through the entire day. But if, annoyed and tired, he gets caught baring his teeth, there is this disappointment in Father’s eyes that feels like a punch to the gut.

It truly does pain Lancelot, to betray the man’s trust, to show once again that the demon-born he took under his wing is barely more than an animal. So he kills the ghosts over and over in his head; yet they come back the next evening unharmed. At times, it seems futile to hold them off, but he grits his teeth and carries on. In the meantime, he gets rid of the imperfections in his impassive mask, smoothens its clay out and tempers it in the fire until no one can say that the porcelain of it is not his own skin.

The cloak on his shoulders is made of heavy, decent fabric. It has turned dull grey from all the soot that he can’t quite wash off, but it keeps him safe, and he does not ask for more.

\---

But one night, the things take a turn for the worse.

One night, Lancelot stumbles back into the room as if he is drunk. The only stay in the abbey one night, to take care of the wounded from the battle at the mill; it's been barely an hour or two, and the cloying stench of smoke clings to his clothes. He shuts the door with such a deafening thud that a tiny icon falls from the wall.

It lands face down into the dust, and then everything is quiet. Even ghosts seem, for once, to be scared into silence by how unhinged he feels. Numb and blind, Lancelot looks at the icon for a momemnt, and then goes to pick it up with stiff fingers. It always comforted him more than others, Madonna’s stern, sad face tugging at something long forgotten in his mind. Merely touching the frame, before even seeing the picture, already brings some quiet to the turmoil in his head. 

But when he flips it over and brushes a thumb over the delicate features with tender reverence, it leaves a faint smear of red behind. It gleams right over her mouth, and Lancelot has never felt so damned.

He hurriedly tries to wipe it off with the edge of his cloak, but it is too late. The blood has already set into the dark old wood, a barely-there trace that his eyes cannot unsee.

… with a shaky inhale, he hauls himself up and takes an unsteady step towards the wall to put it back. Lancelot fidgets with the icon at least five times until it is placed neatly, perfect and parallel to the floor. Not daring to look it in the eye again, he falls onto the cot and pulls the cloak over his shuddering body. Still quiet, the ghosts sit beside him; Lancelot can feel them study him. Their eyes are trained on the blood edging his fingers, smearing onto the fabric, rust over the iron ore.

It is the blood of Fey and Paladin both, just as it has been for years whenever Lancelot came back lashed, but something is different, and after a moment, they finally see it.

The blood might be mingled the same way, but none of it belongs to him.

\---

That night, the shadows let him sleep.

The next one, back in the field, Lancelot waits for them to come with resigned determinationm, only for them to shy away, for one. They only manifest as the dull grey edge to his vision, but that could very well be exhaustion. It repeats the next day, and the one after, and then he almost forgets about it, caught in the frantic chase after the witch across the entire kingdom. 

For a while, he gets to sleep deeply, run off his feet. But with each passing day, Father grows progressively annoyed. It comes down to him waking Lancelot up with urgent words and unkind, impatient shakes.

The tone that underlines this urgency is unfamiliar and disturbing, and when he looks at the man's face, it seems too close to fear. But Lancelot keeps silent, as he reaches for his sword belt and gets up. The day ahead is long and full of smoke and frantic effort.

\---

He only comes back to his tent when the moon reaches its zenith. With the deep, drowsy stillness disturbed only by the dissonance of crickets, his quiet steps echo louder than usual as Lancelot walks through the camp. Everyone else is asleep, save for a couple of brothers standing watch. With a curt nod to them, he dives into the tent.

The cloth falls back, cutting him off from the world, and the quiet dimness inside is as inviting and calm as when he tugs the cloak over his head. The air is blissfully cold on his nape after Lancelot tugs the hood down; all of it together, it almost feels like peace. For four precious hours, there is no angry shouting, no deafening thud of hooves, no sharp, unbearable smell of sweat and oil. He is all alone, and it makes a corner of his lips curl up in a faint suggestion of a smile. 

Even the ghosts are not there to ruin this fragile truce between him and the darkness. And every night without them is a victory he is intent on savouring. It is the longest he has been left alone since the voices sounded for the first time, all these years ago in the little room lost in the maze of the old abbey. He dares to hope they have forgotten about him. 

Other brothers dream of being known for their good, brave deeds, but Lancelot often wonders, in the privacy of his mind, what it would be like, to be forgotten by everyone in the world. The idea should terrify him, but instead, he is helplessly mesmerised by it.

His days are spent under dozens of watchful eyes, and the cloak is fastened securely on his shoulders, the straps tight as always. However, for the first time in more than a decade, the handful of minutes before he falls asleep belong to him only.

And the night air tastes so sweet when Lancelot pushes the suffocating cloth down and just _breathes_.

\---

But the ghosts come on the fifth night from the battle at Moycraig, and when he tries to tug the cloak over his head like he has been doing since he was a child, they yank it back with strong, unforgiving hands.

This time, they do not whisper. _They scream._

—they scream right into his face, pale features twisted in vicious, ugly snarls, they wail with hatred and horror—

—they scream _so loud_ —

—and so does he, waking up the entire camp. 

When the darkness in his eyes recedes, and Lancelot can see again, there is a small crowd right outside his tent. 

He see their vague outlines through the canvas of the wall, just dark shapes in the unsteady torchlight, and hears their worried, hushed voices. With his defences scattered in pieces, the charcoal fabric clutched desperately in his fists, he yearns for them to come in—to comfort him. However, they are not brave enough to go inside, and for a short time, the only sound echoing through the tent is that of his own ragged, shallow breaths.

After a minute or so of their standstill, Lancelot almost gathers enough strength to call out for them to disperse. But then he hears the familiar heavy footsteps and closes his eyes. He feels relief flare hot in his chest, followed immediately by shame that tightens like a noose around his neck. It is hardly new, this confusing, aching mixture of emotions, yet it hits him far stronger than usual.

When Father rushes inside, his robes askew and wisps of white hair ruffled, when the man takes him in, something resembling pity flickers across his face. But Lancelot does not see it. Blinking tears away, he struggles to sit up but is betrayed by the weakness in his limbs. In the aftermath of the nightmare and anticipation of punishment, he shakes like a leaf in the wind. With one shiver after another he is barely able to utter a word, as he looks up at the monk who approaches him with an unreadable but stern face. When he reaches out, Lancelot almost jerks back, the primal fear overriding the deeply instilled obedience...

… and then Father takes him in his arms in a rare, precious embrace. For a moment, he can’t breathe all over again, stunned and blinded by the unexpected mercy. 

Lancelot latches onto the gentle touch like a man starved. His fingers cling desperately to the old man’s arms, they dig in until it must become painful — he is so much stronger, after all, so much younger. However, if it brings Carden pain, he does not let it show as he holds his son with unwavering steadiness. They sit like this until the younger man’s breathing evens out and the tension drains out of his shoulders, only dull ache left behind.

With whispered questions and equally hushed, brief answers, they pull apart. The monk is visibly worried, judging from the tight lines in the corners of his eyes, but Lancelot manages a weak nod to reassure him. He is not a child to be coddled; they both know that, so, with a pat to the scarred back, his Father gets up to leave. Lancelot follows him with his eyes, has half a mind to call out, but restrains the urge. When the priest disappears into the inky shadows, he lets go of the silence and falls back onto the cot with a quiet sigh.

His fingers are clumsy when they find the edge of the cloak. He tugs it over his head out of habit, but deep down, Lancelot knows already that it will not help him tonight. Just as he has thought they will, the ghosts come back, and though they are back to whispering, this time their words slither under the heavy folds of the cloak.

The fabric of it smells of smoke, and smoke… smoke has brought doubt.

\---

Next night, he tries again, and for a moment, the voices get muffled a bit as he cover his ears. With a shaky sigh of relief, Lancelot turns on his side and curls into a ball, closing his eyes…

… only to have them grow louder again, clear and cruel in his head, no cloth enough to keep them out. It is as if the blessing woven into the threads lost its power, but that is not the way holiness works, that is the way…

That is the way mirages work, magnificent and vivid for a while, only to flicker out into nothing. Terrified by the implications of that, Lancelot pushes it out of his mind with such conviction, that even the ghosts falter and take a step back. He manages to ward them off long enough to fall asleep, the cloak stretched taut between them like an impenetrable wall. That night, its threadbare cotton does hold. But it takes less time for them to break through the next one, and even less so after that. 

And after the third night, the old dodge never works for him again.

\---

On the wind, the cloak billows behind him like wings, but he does not like to think about it. It is too close to the poisoned lies whispered into his ear at night, tearing him from inside out, and he cannot doubt.

Because if he allows even a spark of doubt, it will devour him from inside like hellfire. 

In his dreams, the flames are always bright, toxic green.

\---

Somewhere along the line, he has started to believe no harm will come to him at the hands of the enemy swordsmen, either. As long as the dark fabric is streaming behind him, there is no need for the armour nor is there for a shield.

He only takes it off when there is a need for punishment. It becomes a trade of sorts: each strike he deals himself the one he will avoid on the battlefield, even though he’d never admit to it. It is his pagan nature speaking, but in the heat of the moment, he lets himself be a bit cunning. Surely it can be excused, with how close they are to the victory; the goal justifying the means.

Lancelot knows he shouldn’t be prideful, shouldn’t find enjoyment in his servitude, and for that, he cannot come up with an excuse. But a taunting smirk finds its way on his lips anyway, when he fights. Either he is that good of a fighter, or God really watches over him, after all, having grown favourable after everything Lancelot has done in his name. He is humble and arrogant enough at once to hope for the latter.

It makes it all the more surprising when the Green Knight’s dagger pierces right through his sleeve. It opens the skin underneath so effortlessly, it’s like the man did not even notice what he has just done.

Lancelot is so stunned, for a moment, all he can do is stare at his hand. It is as if the fabric of the dream is torn, its frayed edges falling apart to reveal something so dark and sinister, that the air in his lungs freezes with fear. His forearm bleeds clean red, but there is poisonous green under the skin of his palm.

When Lancelot looks up at the knight, he sees that shade reflected there. The noble ferocity of the knight is stunning, but that beauty is venom, and there is not a trace of compassion on the man's face, and there are orders… 

And then the fear is so loud, it drowns out everything else.

\---

Every word the knight utters feels like a direct blow to his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. Later, Lancelot listens to the echoes of the man’s screams from his tent. Desperate to tune them out, he rocks back and forth, clutching at his forearm, where the gash left by the Fey blade oozes slowly. 

It is such a little wound, barely a scratch, but it has gotten infected. The rot festers in it, and so does the doubt in his soul. He can’t help but wonder if that injury is a sign that God has stripped him of his protection, but when he tries to think of why, his mind comes up blank. Everything that they have asked of him, he did. Something is wrong, always has been, and the longer he ponders it, the more it all falls apart. Soon, his head is spinning, and then there is only one thing that can bring clarity and quiet that he needs to make a choice.

The cloak and the sword are discarded in the corner of the tent. But the well-worn handle of his other gift rests heavy in Lancelot’s palm.

\---

When he straps his blades on and utters a short, but perhaps the most genuine prayer of his life, the words finally feel right. Briefly pressing his lips against the cold metal of the baptismal cross, Lancelot shuts his eyes tightly and shakily sucks the air in. It tastes of smoke, but there is rot underneath.

Even if everything else the knight said is a lie, the boy is innocent; he needs to stop Father from making that mistake. The old man is overcome with despair, and even though he is the fiercest spirit of them all, fear might still cloud his judgement. They are facing two kings, the witch and the pope at once; it would have been enough to make anyone snap.

Lancelot will just get the boy out of the camp and then come back.

\---

As usual, fate has something different in mind for him.

From the look on Abbott’s face, he was not aware that Lancelot was promised to be unharmed. But then, he is done counting on those promises, either. No amount of fear is going to keep him safe now.

Besides, it has recently come to Lancelot’s attention that one does not need to be shielded from fire if he has a sword to kill the man who carries the torch. 

He is inclined to believe the words of a dead man, seeing as he is going to be one soon as well.

\---

To the surprise of everyone involved, Lancelot does not, in fact, keel over and die, joining the Green Knight in hell. It is a relief because otherwise, the Fey boy would be dead, too, and then the man would have probably fought demons for the chance to get his hands on Lancelot.

As it is, though, both demonic orphans are still alive, and the older one is feeling cautiously optimistic. The cloak is a tattered black mess, but he pays it no heed. That is, also, unexpected.

We plan, God laughs, Lancelot thinks, and the smile tugs at the corner of his lips, laughter bubbling out of his throat, mixed with blood. He has probably snapped, at last, but can't find it in himself to care, the first taste of freedom making him light-headed.

To be fair, he is also just too out of it with blood loss, and his singular focus is to get them as far away from the camp as possible. The Trinity guards are dead, his secret is out, and there is not a single spot on his body that is not sore. The reason for all of that is, however, wrapped securely in his arms, his foul sharp tongue evidently intact, so it is something.

Lancelot will figure out what to do next when they get there, but for now, he can at least try to understand how human they both really are.

... He must admit the boy’s first reply does not really help in disproving the idea that Fey are merely animals.

But the doubt planted by the Green Knight has grown and filled his entire head by now. It unearthes long-forgotten memories, something warm thawing out the frozen cavity behind his ribs. He is not the same person, but neither is he willing to turn his face away from the shadows any longer. 

So Lancelot asks again.


	2. The Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mild injury.

Lancelot’s sword crossed the norman’s with a clash that reverberated all the way to his shoulder.

“Hold them off!” he yelled, trying to shove back the raider who decidedly did not want to be shoved back. With a valiant effort, Lancelot prevailed and in one fell swoop, brought the man to the ground.

“What do you think I am doing?!” shouted back Gawain, who was beleaguered by two northerners at once. He brandished both the sword and the dagger; it was difficult to even see him behind the flickering glimmers of steel that surrounded him like a storm. Despite how swiftly he whirled around, the knight was very clearly on the defensive.

“Not - holding - them - off!” Lancelot replied, each word interrupted by a clamour of steel against hardened wood as he deflected the heavy blows of the spear. “Gods, Gwen…”

“Don’t call me that!” the woman roared, and then struck again with tenfold viciousness, her face twisted in a ferocious sneer. It took him aback every time like the first one, and under the relentless onslaught, Lancelot stumbled back, falling to the ground. Before she could pin him to the ground, he rolled to the side and leapt back on his feet. Gwen grinned at him, blood staining her teeth and wild hair spilling over her shoulders. He nearly swooned but did not stop trying to reach his sword, which she did not allow him to do, striking out like a viper.

She was toying with him, Lancelot realised and flushed to the roots of his hair. The situation was starting to border on frankly embarrassing. But right at that moment someone — must have been Percival — shot an arrow at her from where he had crawled onto the tree branch, and Gwen had to dive with a loud swear. 

And that’s how Lancelot got his first second to breathe in an hour. He used the opportunity to throw a glance at Gawain, who is still battling with the same two raiders. They swung their axes with such precision that he barely managed to dodge before one of the strikes sliced the ends of the auburn lock clean off. 

“Oi, not the hair!” he cried out, but the roguish smirk on his lips clashed wildly with the wild gleam in his eyes. His forehead was glistening with sweat, and the next blow smashed the amiable facade into smithereens, revealing the feral snarl.

With a muffled swear, Lancelot rushed to his aid, unarmed but determined, vaulting over the miserably groaning men slumped on the training grounds. He thought of picking up their weapon, but attacking with steel from behind was against the rules. So, instead, when one of them tried to stand, pushing up on shaky knees and hands, he used his back as a stepping stone to launch himself in the air.

The poor sod dropped down with a defeated whine, but Lancelot paid his sprawled form no mind, as he fell on the back of the raider who was attacking the knight. The man stumbled under his weight, and for a moment longer, he still clung to his axe, but with a mighty strike, Gawain made him drop the weapon. Ducking to the left, he parried the blow of another assailant and, now that he could focus, swiftly made him fall back with a series of quick feints and vicious jabs.

In the meantime, Lancelot was drawing looks and breaking the records. He was thrown off once already, but managed to slip away, nimble as a snake, and then hurled himself at the man again. In a rapid, elaborate move, he hoisted himself up and perched on his shoulders. 

The raider was a veritable beast — taller than even Lancelot by a good head, a mountain of battle-hardened scarred flash. He tried to shake the much slender man off like an enraged bear: swiped at him with one hand, clawed at the thighs wrapped around his throat with another. Lancelot clung for dear life, desperately trying to remember what he was allowed to do, until Gawain, who had finally dealt with the other raider, leaving with a bruised ego, but mostly intact hide, sauntered back to them.

“Yield,” he demanded with a wolfish grin.

“Not to the crybaby,” the man croaked, and two Fey exchanged a glance before Gawain shrugged. 

“Garrote?” Lancelot asked, hopefully.

“Garotte,” he nodded.

With that permission, Lancelot yanked the metal string out of his sleeve and looped it around the men’s neck.

“Yield,” he suggested in a quiet voice, and with a dismayed groan, the raider tapped on his thigh in surrender.

\---

The second step of this impromptu half-tournament, half-training between Man Bloods and Fey took place deeper in the woods, and Gawain was brimming over with excitement, absolutely sure of their success. 

Now though, as the knight laid in a ditch clutching at the profusely bleeding hole in his stomach, he couldn’t help but think, that perhaps just this once he should have listened to the warning voice in the back of his mind. 

It had been a bad idea from the start, to trust Man Bloods enough to train like that. Kaze said as much, a wise woman that she was, even called it outright idiocy. However, Arthur’s pleading eyes were a force to be reckoned with; driven by the surge of camaraderies, Gawain agreed. 

After all, it was, in his opinion, simply counterproductive to listen to common sense when the world around had gone mad. But yes, he should have stayed put, let them reveal their true colours when there was no chance of being cut off from the others. Too late now. Gawain looked down, distantly registered the alarming amount of blood, told himself to suck it up and tried to get up.

Falling back, he waited for the black clouding his vision to recede and, in the meantime, came to an uneasy realisation that this time he had bitten off more than he could chew. It seemed like a time for a grand declaration or the last stand, but neither appeared possible. The pale face hovering in front of him was blocking the sunlight, and Gawain would very much like to enjoy some in his last moments. 

He would also very much like for the man not to die in case the Man Bloods had more aces up their sleeves, but that was a tertiary motive.

“Leave me,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, sucking the heavy, quick breaths in. “You need to tell others there is a traitor.”

Lancelot paused for a moment, taking him in with slightly widened eyes, and then nodded.

“Alright.”

 _What do you mean alright_ , Gawain thought with a slight note of hysteria creeping into his inner voice but did not say anything. It was below him. He had just asked the man to go, after all. So he watched Lancelot disappear into the forest, and then threw his head back and watched how sunlight shattered in the leaves.

\---

The objective was to capture the ruins of an old castle in the heart of the forest, so that was where Lancelot ran. He delivered the news, and then somehow ended up being assigned a leader of a very, _very_ vengeful band of Fey. They were now gathered next to the gate, deciding which part of the forest each group will comb through. Lancelot had to remind them two times not to kill the man on the spot, then he had to remind them they were still allies with the rest of the raiders, and so he was just finishing assigning them.

“Aren’t you missing someone?” sounded the grim question from behind him.

With a start, Lancelot spun around to face the dark outline hovering in the dim shadows of the gateway. There was no mistaking that voice, and his impassive mask fell for a moment, before the name slipped out, an unbidden question.

“Gawain?”

“Why, yes. I take it you didn’t expect that,” the knight remarked with unconcealed hostility, and pushed off the wall with an effort to limp over.

“How did you…” finally found the voice one of the Fey.

“Prayed for a miracle, how else,” Gawain bit out, voice laden with bitterness, and Lancelot, who had just opened his mouth to try and explain himself, fell silent at once. The withering green glare made him shrink on himself a bit, despite the fact that Gawain was shorter than him and injured. It hardly made him any less terrifying.

“Have you learnt nothing during these months?” he wondered, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another, and Lancelot’s eyes riveted to the thin rivulets of crimson spilling between the fingers Gawain pressed against a tear in his gambeson. He wanted to point it out. However, it seemed that the man was determined to not let him put the word in, as he continued to reprimand him. His voice dripped with scorn as the words kept spilling out of his mouth in time with gushes of blood. “I thought you would finally grow to...”

“Gawain,” he called out, growing panicked.

“... grasp the idea of - camaraderie…”

“Gawain?”

“--the partnership, Lancelot, it’s all about…”

“Gawain!”

“What?!”

“You’re bleeding out.”

The knight frowned as if going to say _no, I am not_ , but then paused and looked down. For a moment, he just stared at the wound. The expression on his paling face was that one has when a distant relative shows up on their doorstep, already with a chest of clothes for a month.

“Huh,” he said at last. “I guess I am.”

It was as if the time slowed down as Lancelot watched how the last colour drained from the knight’s face, but before he could suggest they continue the verbal lashing at the healer, Gawain’s eyes rolled back, and he sank to the ground.

He barely managed to catch the man in time for him to avoid adding the brain injury to the list. Though, privately, Lancelot suspected it had occurred much earlier in his life, probably when he was an infant. Would explain how he managed not to notice that his wounds healed much faster than usual. As if Lancelot would have left him otherwise – he was just going to fetch him while the others took care of the unlucky assassin.

But now the knight managed to tear the wound open again, and it seemed even the Hidden threw their hands up in despair.

\---

It turned out Gawain really had not noticed he was healing faster. Apparently, he had just thought everyone else was whining for no good reason. When Lancelot wondered how the healers had never gotten around to telling him, the knight admitted sheepishly that he never actually went to them. Pym chose that moment to jab the needle in his side with particular cruelty; and Lancelot, though he shot her a disapproving glare, could not really blame the girl.

Then Arthur rushed in to let them know the culprit had been caught. The Fey had even managed to restrain themselves and only relieved him of the less vital body parts, an ear here, a finger there, so he was now being questioned by Nimue. Everyone shuddered.

And then Arthur finally saw the wound and let out a complicated sound. It was an outraged swear, mostly, with a hint of a pained moan and a pinch of a wordless question—a very elaborate composition that spoke highly of his bardic talents. Gawain even tried to clap, but then Pym demanded him to stop the fuck moving, and he obliged.

When Arthur learnt that Gawain had been unaware of his powers all this time, he couldn’t speak for a good minute. When he finally managed to stop laughing and took his hands away from his face, the Fey learnt that everyone knew about the healing powers, but assumed it was common knowledge. With the scale of sorcery that their Queen and her father did, the fact that Gawain healed faster just.. got lost.

Pym shook her head, Gawain stared blindly at the wall, and Lancelot just kept silent, looking between all of them. He got to hold on the hope that the reveal would be enough to dissolve the palpable tension between him and the knight. Encouraged by this new information, Gawain had promptly sneaked out of the healer’s tent and was now missing. Lancelot was on the verge of murdering someone, probably himself.

“He never - why - gods,” he exclaimed, pacing back and forth, and then stopped, drawing a shuddering breath in. “I just did what he told me to do.”

“And that’s exactly the problem,’ Arthur muttered, and patted his shoulder with a vaguely pitying expression on his face that immediately reminded Lancelot that he much despised the man. It was easy to forget with him sometimes. 

Shrugging the thief’s hand off his shoulder with a pointed, petty gesture, he tilted his chin up and strode off with a firm intention to find Gawain and figure out what the hell he had done wrong this time.

\---

Ducking out of the way of the pebble Gawain threw at him, Lancelot padded over and sat next to him on the riverbank. It was a quiet little nook, hidden behind the sprawling bushes and low hanging branches of the ivys—a perfect place to talk.

However, even after the stilted apology he’d forced out, Gawain was enraged. Probably even more than before, which could have been partly explained by him being embarrassed, but did not make it easier for Lancelot.

“It was just another wound — I can take it, it’s battle after battle these days anyway,” the knight spat out, “but I thought… I thought at least I might have something to look forward to at the end of it.”

Lancelot froze. “What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gawain muttered, turning his face away, and frowned, watching the ripples on the water. “Alright, fuck. I want — wanted - you to be with me.”

Lancelot glanced at the water as well, just to check that it did not provide any clues to the man’s cryptic behaviour, but alas; so he looked back at Gawain.

“I am with you,” he reminded, brows knitting together in confusion. “All the time, actually.”

“That’s--so not what I meant.”

The knight glanced at him briefly, and at the heated, hungry look in his eyes, everything went dark for Lancelot.

“I… I am not sure I understand you,” he forced out, despite how he understood perfectly well what the man was saying. One had to be blind not to see it, and perhaps he was, for how he had not noticed it so far, but still, he couldn’t quite believe it.

“What is here to understand, Lancelot?” Gawain wondered, glancing up, at the dark night sky above them. “I want — wanted — want, fuck, still want you to be my lover. Is that clear enough?”

Startled by the unbridled bitterness in his tone, Lancelot fell silent. It was a battle he did not know how to fight, something vicious and pained that raged behind the thin shell of Gawain’s composure, made the corner of his lips twitch angrily and deepened the lines on his face.

“I am — I am not built like that,” he forced out, at last, voice small with how huge the confession was. 

Gawain scoffed, a mirthless smile twisting his lips. “Yes, I guessed. A man can’t love a man, and…”

“It’s not that,” Lancelot interrupted, and swallowed thickly, before adding in the same soft voice, “I don’t want anyone.”

The other looked at him with a baffled expression. “No one?”

He shook his head without a word, a sickening squirming of guilt in his stomach.

“But you always gush about Gwen,” Gawain frowned. “And Galehaut, that’s why I thought… You don’t have to spare my feelings, you know.”

Before the cold mask that the man had already started to tug on could lock in place, Lancelot reached out. He did not even have the foresight to consider that it might not be the best course of action before his fingers brushed against the dark skin in a tentative attempt to draw the real Gawain back out. It seemed to work, to his relief, even though the gleaming green eyes that were now fixed on him were still filled with hurt, that echoed in Lancelot’s lungs as he took a shuddering inhale.

“I find them beautiful,” he began to explain, and the raw honesty of it all constricted his throat so he couldn’t even raise his voice properly; but Gawain listened anyway. “And you, most of all.” Lancelot paused, expecting the other man to protest, but as he kept silent, he continued. “But I - ” - have no wish to - “won’t be able to” - turn it into something it isn’t - “give you what you want.”

“How do you know what I want?”

Without saying a word, Lancelot just tilted his head and stared back at him, and Gawain, unbelievably, flushed, though the hint of pink was barely visible in the dim light. The night was merciful, hiding away the shame of its favourite child.

“Well, maybe you just didn’t — have you ever tried it?” he wondered, clinging to straws. “I bet you haven’t, not with the Church—you don’t have to answer—gods, did they—tell me they didn’t—oh, good, I don’t feel like killing right now.” He took a deep inhale. “But if you just let me show you…”

“Gawain?” he called out, quieter than before, and waited until the man looked at him again. “I don’t want to.”

For the briefest moment, it looked as if he would protest, and Lancelot braced himself for explaining it was not the matter of courage it took to try something. He even considered reluctantly whether it might be the truth, whether Gawain might be able to fix that part of him like he fixed so many things…

“Alright.”

Lancelot startled and looked back at the man, eyes wide with disbelief. It was as if all the energy he gathered to argue was put into this one look, and Gawain huffed, glancing away.

“What? I am not that much of an asshole,” he muttered. “Sorry for — I am not usually like this. You’re just…”

“I know,” reassured Lancelot with a wince. “I am — I am sorry it’s like that.”

“It’s alright,” Gawain rushed to reply and then winced himself at how unconvincing his voice was.

Lancelot tilted his head. “You don’t have to spare my feelings, either.”

The knight hummed, the tense smile not reaching his eyes. “No, but for some reason, I still want to.”

They were silent for a moment, Gawain dangling his feet in the water absently and Lancelot listening to the splash of water and the thrills of a nightingale somewhere deeper in the woods around them. The moon, thinly veiled by the swirling clouds, was climbing up the sky, and its light coated the edges of fragile leaves around them in silver.

Gawain broke the silence first.

“It’s awfully romantic here,” he remarked, and some of the good humour was back in his voice. “Do you mind if I ruin the atmosphere?”

“Go ahead,” eagerly nodded Lancelot, so relieved that the heavy air between them finally cleared, that he did not even question what Gawain might have had in mind. 

With a grateful nod, the knight leaned back, his hands sinking into the silky grass that gladly wrapped around the scarred fingers. “So, rumour has it there is a monster in this lake.”

Lancelot shot a glance at the bare feet still moving lazily in the water that lapped at the shore and swore. “Then why would you…”

A serene expression on Gawain’s face did not falter as he swirled the water around. “I was trying to draw it out.”

That dormant bloodlust Lancelot was very proud of keeping in check in the last month reignited in a blink.

“Why,” he said, voice trembling with rage, “were you doing this, again?..”

“Could be fun,” the man whose idea of ruining the atmosphere consisted of killing them both shrugged, “Especially if it’s a kelpie.”

Lancelot paused, pursing his lips. “It is a kind of a horse, right?”

“Can be, yes.”

He bent over to peer cautiously in the water. Gawain grinned.

“And in any case, even if it’s a wyvern or something equally terrible,” he said, “if you are here, I am ready to fight it”.

Lancelot glanced at him, brows knitted together in confusion.

“I mean,” Gawain got up and started to tug his armour off. “You find me most beautiful if I recall correctly?” At the firm nod, his grin grew wider. “Well — get ready then. I am going to wrestle an enchanted horse while wearing nought but my underpants — and those for the sake of your delicate sensibilities only. It’s going to be glorious.”

Speechless, Lancelot could only nod. He did not even bother trying to explain how many more things he found beautiful about the man. There were, he knew, many more odd, but important conversation to come. But it could wait. Even if his inner counter of days without murderous thoughts was back to zero, Lancelot was still intent on keeping his sanity, and contemplating the beauty of the world helped greatly.

And, well, the Green Knight catching a mythical creature on a lovely summer night was pretty much on top of his list of pretty things. So, he toed off his shoes, pulled his sword closer, and leaned back, watching how Gawain braved the dark water and then dove in. In a moment, Lancelot starled at the guttural roar that sent a wave to the shore, and unsheathed his sword with a sigh. He would give him five more minutes.


	3. The Smirk

The first time Gwen laughed at his attempt to woo her, Arthur grinned right back, simply because it was also the first time she laughed at all. Her laughter was so bright and fierce that he did not mind much if it was at his expense.

The second time it happened, Arthur started to have doubts about his strategy, and though he still smiled, it was tinged with nerves and confusion.

The third time, when he had managed to catch her alone and then presented her a small bouquet of wildflowers, which she had promptly fed to her horse, Arthur had to admit he was starting to lose hope.

Perhaps he had been too soft — did he have to act tougher? How much tougher — more than the raiders? Last night, he had seen one of them drink out of a skull and then crush it in their fist, so that was an objectively high bar. Arthur was not so sure he would be able to do that; he could always try, of course... Nay. Nay, that was wishful thinking.

What he could do is dazzle her with his fighting skills. She had appeared genuinely appreciative of his help at the coast, and that had been nice, for a change. But most importantly, he had it on good authority (in other words, Pym), that Red hated weak men – and women, actually. And hazelnuts, but he was not sure how this fact could be used to win the captain’s heart.

So, fighting it was. For all of the twenty seconds, Arthur felt optimistic. Then, he remembered that he was in the same camp with Gawain, Kaze, and, recently, Lancelot.

Ignoring the whiplash he got from the way his heart plummeted into his stomach right after soaring high, the young man shook his head and set his jaw. Kaze was still more likely to bristle at him, then talk, Lancelot barely spoke at all even on a good day, but Gawain had recently warmed up to him, even going as far as calling him by his name. Most of the time, unless they were really at odds during one of the war councils.

Still, surely, he would not deny him a favour. It would, if anything, stroke the Fey Knight’s massive ego. Could have phrased it better, Arthur thought with a wince, and then groaned inwardly, remembering the last bathing day. Yes, definitely should have chosen a different idiom. In any case, it was time to find the man.

As usual, he tracked him by the tiny twittering flock of Fey maidens, who had seemed to always trail after the knight. Now, they gathered into a semi-circle, pretending to sew, while in truth, the needlework laid forgotten on their laps as they watched Gawain discuss something with the chieftains of the clans. When Arthur walked past them, the girls graced him a brief, indifferent glance and then returned to sighing dreamily over the dashing, brave and oh so enigmatic man. Their words, not his.

Coming closer to the chieftains and the knight, Arthur heard what they were discussing, and winced. Apparently, the infamous pest problem of the Fey camp had gotten worse. The birds and the rodents had recently become a real pain in the ass, constantly trying to get inside the barn with all the grain supplies.

Trying to sound casual, Arthur asked whether they had tried cats. Gawain gave him a nasty look and informed him that, yes, they had, but it had not helped; the last was found hiding on a beam. Poor bastard had half an ear torn off. Pursing his lips, Arthur volunteered to look into it; it was a dull and dirty duty, but it would do well to butter up the knight.

The Fey agreed, feigning reluctance, but he saw how relief flickered over their faces. Perhaps they secretly hoped for some modern human invention. Even Gawain seemed genuinely happy, as he crossed it off the list. From the cursory glance, it looked like there were around four dozens more — Arthur shuddered, but then Gawain unrolled another parchment, and that one was three times as long. 

Realising the first one was the personal list of the knight, the young man suddenly felt like a wretch for even asking, but then he recalled the sound of Gwen’s laughter and braced himself. Once the break came by, he took the knight aside and explained his situation. To his surprise, there was not a trace of smug satisfaction on Gawain’s face once he was finished.

“Training? Sure,” he agreed, scooping another spoon of his lunch, and Arthur just barely had time to breathe out in relief, when suddenly he heard a terrible clamour, growing with every second.

“Who’s that?” he squinted, watching the crowd appear at the end of the street. They seemed to be in a rather foul mood, dust and swear words trailing after them like a cloud.

“Oh Hidden,” Gawain breathed out, a horrified expression on his face as he froze with a spoon half-way to his mouth, “petitioners.”

“I thought you weren’t in charge of that?..” Arthur frowned, mesmerised by the violence approaching them with the speed of two dozen quarrelling Fey. There seemed to be feathers flying up, so probably a moonwing got into a squabble with someone.

His meal abandoned, Gawain fetched his scabbard from where it was leaning against the desk and fastened the sword belt around his waist. “I am not—but try telling it to them.”

“Where are you going?”

Clasping his shoulder, Gawain looked him in the eye and said: “Fuck it. I am going to fight some paladins and hope I die there.”

Taken aback by the other’s ferocity, Arthur glanced at the crowd again, every single one of them wearing severe scowls and sneers; when he turned back, Gawain was already gone. Closing his mouth with a click, Arthur realised he would be next in line, once they discovered the Green Knight had preferred to face death rather than another mysteriously missing chicken. 

For a brief moment, he was torn between staying to deal with the enraged petitioners and running for his life. But in the end, he broke. It was his day off, and he only had a woman to court. Slithering away into the shadows, Arthur felt both rebellious and awful. 

Then he remembered how Gwen had smirked at him the other day, amused by his joke, and all the shame was wiped by the fierce fluttering of butterflies in his stomach. It was a bit dampened by the fact that Gawain was obviously too busy, and now too far away, to be of help in the quest, but there were still options. 

With a spring in his step, Arthur went to find another knight, but then it turned out that Kaze was gone on a mission and would not be back earlier than in a fortnight. He gritted his teeth, which did little but make the other Fey narrow their eyes suspiciously. With a forced smile, Arthur bowed his head and backed out of the tent.

In a rather morose mood, he dragged himself to the training grounds. On his way, he kicked at least a dozen pebbles. He sighed, so heavy that a blackbird on the roadside paused and tilted its head, studying him. Giving it a forlorn look, the young man shifted his focus to the leaves and gazed wistfully into the middle distance, imagining himself as a wind, carefree and not bound by the sorrows of human existence. You know, the usual.

Once on the grounds — well, a clearing in the forest adorned with a couple of dummies and targets — he nodded at the Fey training with a bow and made his way to the opposite side, where a familiar dark figure was sitting in proud loneliness. Dropping on the boulder a dozen steps away from the man. When he looked up, Arthur nodded at him as well but did not utter a word.

For a short while, they just sat there, only the grating sound of a whetting stone running along the blade and the mellow bird song filling the silence. Without pausing his work, Lancelot shot him a couple of sideways glances, as if he was wondering when he would speak. Arthur himself realised he probably had to say something, but could not figure out the right way to ask.

The silence stretched thin, as he watched Lancelot sharpen the sword. At least the time was not wasted; he appeared to have found of the culprits responsible for the grain problem, as the man kept pausing to throw oat seeds at the blackbirds that hopped on the grass nearby. He could not, however, find it in him to tell Lancelot that it was not a good idea – the man looked so serene, it was better not to hinder his progress. Besides, he still had to ask him for help.

Oh, who was he fooling, no words would really make better the fact that he was asking the Weeping Monk to train him so that he could impress a girl. So, when Lancelot put the stone away and glanced at him again, Arthur shifted, and, with a sharp exhale, blurted out his request.

“I am sorry,” Lancelot said after a short pause. “I am not sure I understand.”

“Can you teach me how to fight?” he repeated, frustration seeping into his voice.

“Why me?” came a very valid question.

Arthur paused, and then tactfully decided against telling the man that he had failed to obtain the aid of the two far more appropriate teachers. “I did horrible in Moycraig when we fought.”

Lancelot shrugged, looking down at the sword on his lap. “It was alright.”

“I need better than alright or Red will never…” Arthur trailed off, mortified at the slip of his tongue. If his cheeks already started to grow warmer, it was nothing compared to when he saw a faint smile tick the corners of Lancelot’s mouth up. Humiliation flared up like fire in his chest, and distantly, he realised he must have been blushing in earnest by now, judging by the warmth that spread down his neck.

“Will you help me?” he asked in a calm voice, seething inwardly.

No reply came.

With a dismayed huff, Arthur pushed off the boulder and began walking back towards the camp. However, before he could make more than a dozen steps, there was a shift in the air behind him and a soft rustle of grass. Hackles rising, Arthur tried to reach for his sword but was stopped by the gentle touch of steel in between his shoulder blades. He swallowed thickly and wondered if his tombstone would say anything nice at all or just “was born and died stupid“.

“Turn around.”

His heart hammering, Arthur obeyed. 

When Lancelot met his eyes, there was just a suggestion of a smile on his face, but its soft lines did little to draw the attention from the fact that he was still holding a sword pointed right at his heart. To his relief, the Fey lowered the blade and tilted his head, piercing eyes drifting from his toes to his head. It made Arthur feel as if he was being undressed, and while he was hardly a stranger to intense stare-downs, this time, it left him quite ruffled.

“Draw your sword,” Lancelot ordered.

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur reached for the hilt, but before he could catch more than a gleam of steel through the air, the flat side of the blade swat him on the wrist. With a soft hiss, he yanked his hand back and shook it in the air, trying to get rid of the sting.

In his turn, Lancelot lowered the blade. “Again,” he said.

He paused, watching the other cautiously, and then shot his hand out — his fingers brushed over the pommel, but the other man was still faster, and the steel slapped against his hand all the same.

“Again.”

It was, obviously, a mockery. However, when he frowned and looked at Lancelot, even though his eyes were glimmering, the rest of his face remained indifferent. He was not laughing — just stood there, with his shoulders relaxed, the hilt of the sword gripped just tight enough in his fingers; it looked like the sword was a natural extension of his body.

Fuck, Arthur wanted to be able to do that, too, and a little shame was not going to stop him. So, he tried to reach his own weapon again; but when it ended the same way as the two previous attempts, he swore, and then closed his eyes briefly and held his palm up.

“How long are you planning on doing this, exactly?..” he wondered.

“As long as it takes for you to woo the queen of the raiders,” Lancelot replied, lips curved in a crooked smirk. “Come on — you almost got it. Try again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tags to be updated (if I missed anything, let me know).  
> Next prompt will be "battle" and I really do hope it will be shorter.


End file.
